Lahat ng Kabanata ng Deep Inside (Erotica short story collections): Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

Isidora’s POVThe last time I saw Billy, I was twenty-two and still pretending my feelings for him were academic. He was hired to help me with stats-rigid, logical numbers but nothing about him felt simple or clinical.Now, three years later, I stood outside his front door, dressed in a fitted silk blouse and jeans that clung like intention. I wasn’t here for tutoring anymore. I was here for something else.I had replayed the email he sent last week a hundred times.> “Isidora. Heard you’re back in town. Come by sometime. Let’s catch up.”Catch up. Two words soaked in suggestion, or maybe it was just me projecting everything I still wanted from him.He opened the door before I could knock.Billy had changed and not at all. His hair, longer now, curled slightly at his temples, dark and thick. His stubble gave him a rough edge that hadn’t been there before. But his eyes… those knowing, unreadable eyes, slate gray like a storm about to break...those were the same.He looked at me like he

Monday morning should’ve started with coffee and spreadsheets.Instead, Arielle was spread across Dominic Thorne’s private desk, wrists bound with his silk tie, her blouse somewhere near the door. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, nipples hard from exposure and anticipation.“Still pretending this is strictly professional?” he growled, mouth brushing the sensitive skin beneath her breast.She didn’t answer...couldn’t. Her brain had liquefied the second he’d dragged her into his office and locked the door behind them.Dominic’s fingers traced over her inner thighs, teasing the edge of her soaked panties with deliberate slowness, like he enjoyed the way her body trembled. And maybe he did. Maybe he got off on watching her unravel under his touch, watching the icy, composed Arielle lose herself completely.“You’re soaked through,” he murmured, voice thick with desire as he dragged the lace down her legs. “And we’ve barely started.”She glared at him through her lashes, pulse

Eden hadn’t meant to linger.After what happened in the his room, his hands gripping her waist, his mouth hot against her throat, the way her body had betrayed every ounce of restraint she’d tried to keep, she should’ve packed her things and left.But the house was too quiet now. Too big. And Julian was still here.She kept to herself the next morning, avoiding the main hall and staying tucked in the guest quarters downstairs. It was easier to clean in silence, easier to pretend last night had never happened.But when she entered the guest room with the fresh linens tucked under her arm, she found him already there.Julian Whitmore.Tall, broad-shouldered, still barefoot, like some kind of indecent royalty lounging in his family’s mansion. His shirt was half-buttoned, dark chest hair peeking through. He was standing at the window, looking out at the sprawling estate with the kind of detachment only old money could afford.She froze.He turned."Morning, Eden."His voice was lazy velve

Monica knew secrets. They lived in the marginal notes of contracts, in the half-deleted clauses of NDAs, and in the hushed silences exchanged between boardroom walls.She was a paralegal. Smart, ambitious, with a sharp tongue and sharper mind. And she knew too much.James Vale , managing partner of the firm and legal shark, noticed that. Tall, broad-shouldered, cut from marble in his gray tailored suits, he was every bit the threat he appeared to be. Hair dark as ink, eyes a shade of glacial gray that cut deeper than his words ever could, James wasn’t used to being challenged. Especially not by someone like Monica.But there she was. Walking into his office after hours, heels clicking with purpose, files under her arm."You changed the third clause in the Hensley merger," she said, voice tight, eyes sparking. "You buried a non-disclosure under a land development addendum. Clever. Illegal."James leaned back in his leather chair. "Did you come here to accuse me, Ms. Gregory? Or is thi

Ava Arrinton hated the chill of late November mornings in Boston. The sidewalks were slick, her fingers numb even through her gloves, and the warmth of the bakery's cinnamon-laced air was always too far away. But she loved the walk itself. It gave her time to clear her head before her shift at the gallery. She didn’t know that every step she took was being watched. Rhys Darby stood in the shadowed archway across from her apartment, the brim of his wool cap pulled low, his breath fogging in the cold. She didn’t notice him. She never had. It had started innocently, if stalking could ever be innocent. Rhys had seen her eight months ago at the gallery’s opening. She was wearing a forest-green dress, her dark curls pinned up, laugh soft like warm honey. She hadn't even looked at him that night. She was too busy balancing wine glasses and avoiding the advances of older patrons. But Rhys noticed everything about her. Her voice. The way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. How she bit th